Syaoran to his Mistress
by Fox Trot 9
Summary: Syaoran serenades a sonnet to Sakura before going back to Hong Kong. But what happens afterward is anything but a serenade. This story will have sonnets and maybe other poems in it. You have been warned. R & R, folks.
1. Prologue: Beginning Sonnet

Disclaimer: _Cardcaptor Sakura_ (c) Clamp & "Spanish Eyes" (c) Al Martino.

**Syaoran to his Mistress  
****Fox Trot 9  
Rated—T  
Romance/Poetry**

**Prologue  
****(Beginning Sonnet)**

Green, pretty eyes: tear drops are falling from your pretty eyes.  
Please, please don't cry: this is just "matane" and not "goodbye".  
Soon, I'll return, bringing you all the love-your heart can hold.  
Please, say "Hai, hai": save you and your pretty eyes for you and I.

Green, pretty eyes, prettiest eyes in all of Nihongo.  
Sweet, pretty eyes: please smile for me once more before I go.  
Soon, I'll return, bringing you all the love-your heart can hold.  
Please, say "Hai, hai": save you and your pretty eyes for you and I.

Green, pretty eyes: I will be dreaming of your pretty eyes.  
Please, please don't cry: this is just "matane" and not "goodbye".  
Soon, I'll return, bringing you all the love-your heart can hold.  
Please, say "Hai, hai": save you and your pretty eyes for you and I.

Please, _say_ "Hai, hai": save you and your pretty eyes for you and I.  
Please, _say_ "Hai, hai": save you and your pretty eyes for you and I.

**(To be continued...)**

A/N: Now I know Syaoran's not the kind of guy that would serenade for anyone, but this is just for fun folks. If you want, you can go to YouTube to listen to Al Martino or Engelbert Humperdinck sing "Spanish Eyes" while you read it. Oh, and before I forget, "matane" means "see you later" in Japanese. I just wanted you to know, so you guys won't be scratching your heads, thinking, "What the hell does _that_ mean?" Anyways, R & R, please.


	2. Chapter 1: A Shot in the Dark

Disclaimer: _Cardcaptor Sakura_ (c) Clamp & _Shakespeare's Sonnets _(c) William Shakespeare.

**Chapter 1**  
**(A Shot in the Dark)**

Syaoran leaned back in his seat, his heart still pounding over Sakura's sudden appearance as he was about to board the plane due for Hong Kong. His mind was still racing over that moment. He and Wang Wei were sitting in the left row near the window, where Syaoran was looking at his faint reflection in the window. He saw the brilliant blue of endless sky for as far as the eye could see, not a wisp of cloud anywhere. The boy remembered what Sakura was trying to describe. It was true love, though she couldn't yet put it into those words. Now he chided himself for not saying more to her before he had to leave. But what else could he have said or done than just give Sakura that teddy bear and just say 'I love you'? He didn't know. But at least he knew it way better than his first attempt and much less dramatic for his taste; he was never a fan of the dramatic, mushy stuff after all.

Ah, that first attempt. That started on a Thursday night in Syaoran's stay with Wei, the night before the finals and the end of school, and he couldn't sleep. He'd just received a phone call from Yelen telling him to come back to Hong Kong by Monday next week. Now he found himself counting the hours left before he had to board the plane at the airport on Sunday—about 72 hours from now. It took him a long time, a year-and-a-half for him to realize his feelings for Sakura, too long by his estimates. He wanted to let her know how he felt about her, that he loved her, though he couldn't muster the nerve to say that to anyone, much less to her. But he wanted to do it in the least painful way possibe. So he thought about it, and somehow he got around to poetry. It was old-fashioned and kind of corny, but after everything he and Sakura went through (catching Clow cards, Yue's trial, Eriol's own set of trails), he wanted it to be good enough for her.

And by Golly, when he wrote those words, he couldn't believe his eyes; he marveled at what he pulled off. This would get the message across, that's for sure, when it would reach her mailbox, but then he thought of something else. Why not sing it to her? Yeah, she deserved that, too, and it's up to you to fulfil it, so do it! It was intimidating, but hey! He practiced lines before and did pretty well for the school play; this should be no problem. He'd even ask Tomoyo to give him some singing lessons tomorrow. Turned out, it was more of a problem than his eleven-year-old mind could've imagined. That day at lunch, Syaoran went to Tomoyo and asked, and she agreed.

When he was done practicing, he was so giddy that he decided it best to let Sakura know how he felt about her _right after_ school, when he could catch up to her. And he did exactly that. After the bell rang, he waited for most of the students and faculty to get out of earshot, then ran up to her and asked her if she would stay for a little while. She said yes innocently enough, oblivious as she always was. And when he asked if he wanted him to _serenade_ a little poetry to her, well...That's when the crap hits the fan. So without further adieu, he let it out, all fourteen lines of it in the best voice he could manage. God, it was awful! No, horrendous! What should have come out sounding at least half-way decent really came out winded and drastically out of tune, as if he had a hair ball caught in his throat; and all the pigeons flew away at the sound, as he watched in utter horror, as Sakura's expression changed from that of blushing expectation to a look of...amusement?

"Sorry, I...Geez, that was bad," he said. "I...I hope it wasn't—"

She began sniggering through the hands cupping her mouth.

"It's not funny!"

"It's not that, Syaoran. You just need more practice, that's all," and she continued sniggering.

He was crushed; no, he was humiliated. And what's worse, a few upperclassmen heard the sound and were rolling around the ground laughing their pinheads off, as if they were seeing a comedy skit. At this, Syaoran wanted to run away as fast as he could, the way he usually did with Yukito. But something stopped him. It was her smile. Something about Sakura's smile stilled him and made him look at her like he'd never laid eyes on her before. He didn't know why; it was usually the girls who had a one-up on the boys in this kind of stuff.

"That's all right, Syaoran," she said, smiling a little Mona Lisa smile. "You tried your best, and that's what counts."

Her words, though spoken in the words of a child, were enough to placate him. But he couldn't say anything; he just found himself nodding his head and failing to notice a certain someone watching the whole scene, until Sakura said something.

"Tomoyo, how long have you been there?" she said, when Tomoyo came over.

"Long enough to know what happened."

The boy felt a sickening, sinking feeling in his stomach and knew that was a bad sign. So he grabbed at Tomoyo's arm and spun her around. Yep; she had her trusty camera with her, stowed away behind her back. "Were you snooping around?" he said.

She just smiled and winked.

"How much did you hear?"

"Don't worry, Syaoran; I can keep secrets. Isn't that right, Sakura?"

Sakura struggled to hold back laughter. "Of course, because it's s-s-so funny!" she said, letting it out.

"You taped it, didn't you?" the boy continued, ignoring the outburst.

"Why would I do that?" She assumed her innocent face. "Unless you want to see what's on it? I'd be glad to show you!"

"No, no, don't show me! Just give me the tape!" he said.

"All right, here," she said, taking it out of her backpack and handing it over.

With the scandalous tape in hand, he sprinted to the nearest trash can to dump it in when he happened to look at it; not an inch of tape had been played. "Daidouji, you gave me the wrong one!"

"Oh! So it must be this one, then?" she said, waving that blasted tape around like a doggie bone.

"I'll ask you one last time. Just give it to me before anything else happens!"

"You'll have to take it from me, first."

"FINE, I WILL!" and he was about to run full on for a tackle but stopped. Tomoyo then whispered into Sakura's ear, telling her something that made her flush and laugh, though the boy hadn't a clue what was said. On, second thought, he'd rather not know.

"I'll catch up with you later," Tomoyo said, "I just need to talk to Syaoran for a bit," and the Sakura nodded and walked off. Then Tomoyo did something completely unexpected, something rotten, dirty, low and totally unlike the actions of an elegant girl; she slipped that tape down her shirt and smiled, daring him to 'take it' from her.

The boy gaped, feeling his eyes bulge from their sockets, as well his face burning in a deep shade of red. Of all the teasing about Eriol getting the move on his Sakura and about his own feelings for her, _that_ act more than anything topped the list of the worst forms of blackmail Tomoyo has ever done. But he composed himself immediately. No girl was gonna get the better of him, unless she was Sakura.

"FINE, KEEP IT, THEN!" and he turned around so that his back faced her.

"Come on, Syaoran; I was just joking," Tomoyo said. "Tell you what. I'll make a copy, and I'll give you the original. How does that sound?"

Now that one almost bowled him over. "WHAT! But that was down your—" He couldn't bring himself to say it; he didn't want to inflict anymore shame on himself than he already did. "What did you tell her?"

"That's none of your business. Why do you ask?"

"Well, the poem, it's...it's..." and his words drifted off into space.

Tomoyo gaped. "That poem wasn't just a joke, was it?"

The boy shook his head.

"Oh my God! When are you leaving?"

"I'll have to be on the way by Sunday this week."

"Then there's no time to lose," and she grabbed Syaoran's hand, and they both ran—no, sprinted—down the sidewalk for Sakura's house.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Daidouji!"

"You should have said that to yourself!"

*** * * CCS * * ***

When they reached the entrance to Sakura's house, they were breathing like they'd just run the fastest race of their lives. Syaoran rang the doorbell, which was answered by none other than Sakura's over-protective big brother.

"Hey, kid," Toya said, "what are you doing here?"

"I...need to talk to...Sakura!"

Toya looked at the boy, trying to figure out if he's faking or not. "Are you two in trouble?"

"Please...It's an emergency!" Tomoyo added.

Toya nodded, going back in and bringing Sakura to the door, and said, "No funny stuff, all right? I've got my eye on you."

"Toya, this is Syaoran, not a murderer!" Sakura said, before turning to the boy. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I...I have to...tell you something."

"What is it?" she said with baited breath, concern showing on her face.

"I...I...I have to leave for Hong Kong...this week."

That took Sakura and even Toya by surprise. Sakura was speechless, her eyes welling up.

"I'm sorry, Sakura. I tried telling you earlier but—" he stopped; he didn't know what else to say.

"Please don't cry, Sakura," Tomoyo said. "Syaoran will come back; he will. You'll come back, right?"

The kid in question didn't respond.

"Right? Syaoran!"

Before he said anything, a sniffling Sakura slipped away, Tomoyo following after her. Her brother watched her go, letting Tomoyo in, then turned to the kid. "You're really leaving?" he said, still not believing.

The boy nodded yes, after which ensued a long, awkward silence.

Then Fujitaka, of all people, came in and told his son to see to her sister (which he did), before turning his attention to Syaoran. This was the first time the kid met Sakura's father, face to face; so, of course, he was getting nervous. Especially after making his daughter cry.

"Sakura's quite upset," Fujitaka said. "What did you say to her?"

"I...I...I didn't mean to make her—"

"I know you didn't, but what did you say?"

"I...I have to go back to Hong Kong."

Silence.

"Do you care about her?"

Syaoran flushed at the question, unable to speak, but he managed to nod yes.

Fujitaka simpered before crouching down to his level. "I'll tell you what. Since you're leaving, I'll have you take something that you can remember her by. Is that fair?"

"Wait, sir, I don't think that's necessary."

"That's not your decision to make now, is it? Beside, I insist," and he stood up and motioned Syaoran through the door before closing it. "Follow me."

He followed the older man through the lounge (he saw Toya rubbing circles on Sakura's back, trying to comfort her, and Tomoyo holding her hand), then went into the dining area and then through the door that lead into the basement below. It was pitch black and reminded Syaoran of the old monster movies that featured some creature in the basement, but when the lights were switched on, he was awe-struck. It was a library with books and what-not in four rows of shelving.

"This is my library, where I keep most of my research," Fujitaka said. "I'll allow you to take one item from this room as a keep-sake."

Syaoran looked at the books that were too many. "I don't know what to pick."

"Well, in that case," he said, picking out a slim hard-cover pocketbook from the middle shelf, "I suggest you take this. It's an anthology of poems written by a genius of his time. Here, take it."

The boy took it, looking at the cover. It read: _Shakespeare's Sonnets_. "Thank you, sir."

"Ah, but I'm not done yet. You still need to uphold your end."

"Wha...what do you mean? I don't understand."

"It's simple, really. When two people that care deeply for one another have to separate for whatever reason, they give each other something to remember each other by. One person gives something, while the other gives something else. It's kind of a tradition back when I was your age."

"Oh. I...didn't know that."

"You'll know more of that when you get older, trust me. Follow me," he said, and Syaoran followed Fujitaka up the stairs.

"Uh...Mr. Kinomoto, I need to go home now. I meant...go back to my house."

"All right, I'll let you go. But be sure to bring something."

"I will," and the kid went out through the dining area, then through the lounge without so much as looking at Sakura and then out the front door, where he tried to steady his trembling knees. Of all the mixups he's been through, he thanked his lucky stars he dodged this latest kink by the closest of margins. He thought he'd almost pee himself, that time.

"Syaoran," (he turned around to see Sakura coming toward him) "you'll come back, right?"

"I wi—"

"Hey, kid, I need to talk to you!" It was Kero.

"Aw, man! What a way to ruin it all, you stuffed animal!"

"Brat, this stuffed animal can eat you for lunch, and you know it! Why'd you make Sakura cry like that, huh?"

"Kero!"

"Come on, Sakura; I'm trying to cheer you up, here!"

"You're not, so bud out, plush toy!"

"I wasn't talking to you, brat!"

"I'm not a brat!"

"Yes, you are!"

"At least I'm not a plush toy!"

"BRAT!"

"PLUSH TOY!"

*** * * CCS * * ***

And on and on it went, resounding in Syaoran's head in a fading echo. Drawn back from his musings, he looked at the booklet in his hands and flipped through the pages of sonnetry. Taped on the inside of the back cover was a small photo of Sakura from when he first met her, which made him smile. He smiled, because not to long ago that girl was his rival not only in the Clow Cards but also in love.

"Ah, it looks like she has your fancy, Master Syaoran," Wei said.

He slapped the book shut. "I...I know; can we not talk about this?"

"All right, all right," the old man said, clearly amused at his charge's immature antics.

More silence, except for the rumble of the plane's engines. For the next half hour or so, Syaoran waited till Wei fell asleep, after which he opened the book to one of the poems that read:

(Shakespeare's Sonnets—Sonnet 18)

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?  
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:  
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,  
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,  
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd,  
And every fair from fair sometime declines,  
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd:

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,  
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,  
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,  
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,  
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

It was gorgeous; he didn't know why, but he loved the style, the way it ebbed and flowed like the tide on a beach. Though he was never the type to enjoy reading poetry, this Shakespeare imbued in his lines with something like honesty, or charm, or edge; he couldn't describe it. It was like a lulling lullaby of someone endlessly playing a symphony of words. Soon, he found himself reading poem after poem, listening to the rhymes and rhythms that lulled with every line and hypnotized with every rhyme, as if he could somehow touch those very words like living, breathing things, as if they were somehow hiding something profoundly treasured in them, that if he tried hard enough he could find what he was seeking, that he could somehow hear the one thing that could guide him.

A voice.

A voice that was his own but different echoed through his dreamy head, like that of some undiscovered poet reciting its own poems:

(1)

When taken side-by-side, the bard and swain  
Are both alike in grace when first compared,  
Envisioned through the eyes to entertain  
The thought that every trait between is shared.

For poets often think themselves the best  
In courting love, when all their best is spent  
In hasty rhymes, their best a worthless jest,  
Which never make amends when love's forewent.

Young lovers, too, cannot articulate  
The passions of their hearts enough to sway  
Their partners to a kiss, much less a date,  
Without mistaking words of truth for play.

These two are one alike in ignorance,  
For both are trapped in childhood innocence.

(2)

A poet's skill in numbered lines is just  
Arithmetic of syllables per rhyme;  
And tender skill in swaying hearts would gut  
A faithless heart of loyalty in time.

And measuring a poet's ardent vows  
Produces next to nothing better than  
A rhyme, since paper rhymes cannot arouse  
A heart to fall in love with heartless man.

A poet's never measured by the weight  
Of rhyme or eloquence, as loving truth  
Is measured not in passing spells of state:  
For love cannot be measured 'spite its youth.

A better poet's love is measured tall,  
When love becomes his courage, will and all...

"Master Syaoran. Master Syaoran, we're already landed." (The boy's eyes snapped open, looking at the blurry figure in front of him.) "It's time to de-board the flight, Master Syaoran."

The boy sighed, clearly annoyed. He picked up his belongings, making sure to pocket his keep-sake in his jacket, and dragged his weary carcass off the seat.

**(To be continued...)**

A/N: Okay, when I first wrote this fic, it was gonna be a one-shot sonnet. But after reading that first sonnet, I thought of making it into a story with poetry in it just for the hell of it. Only it wasn't hell at all; I actually had fun writing them. All poems are mine, except for "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" That's Shakespeare's. But the rest are mine, okay! Oh, and there are many kinds of rhyme out there, slant rhyme, half rhyme, eye rhyme, but I'll try to make my rhymes full. R & R, folks. Also, if any of the characters seem out of character, LET ME KNOW; and if you have any questions, LET ME KNOW.


End file.
